


Keep Me Next To You

by shihadchick



Series: Kiss the Sky [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:11:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4997254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brandon gets home after the Blue Jackets play the Pens in the pre-season, and finds something a little unexpected on his doorstep. Columbus is starting to feel like home after all.</p><p>(A little bonus feature/coda to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4963504">Put Your Clocks Back For The Winter</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Me Next To You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [labellementeuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/labellementeuse/gifts).



> Set after Saad took that puck to the mouth in the pre-season, written for T just because. 
> 
> Many many thanks to [sociofemme](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sociofemme/pseuds/Sociofemme) for a super-speedy and much-needed beta; you're the best, bb. <3 
> 
> Title from Taylor Swift's "22", because I have been wanting to use a line from it for a title f o r e v e r now, and it just seemed to fit. Plus, the Saad/Leddy related pun** we made of it was irresistible.

Brandon hauls his bag out of the back of his car, swings it onto his shoulder and heads toward his front door. He’s tired, but cheerful; getting a solid win in front of family would be enough to put anyone into a good mood. It’s enough to make up for the fact that his jaw’s aching again, still tender. The ascent and descent on the flight back to Columbus had been uncomfortable, to say the least. He’s doing his best not to prod at his teeth constantly, it doesn’t help, but the temptation is pretty overwhelming.

He’s looking forward to lying down, not fussy about whether it’s on his couch - still new enough that it looks like a display model, and almost too shiny - or in his bed, which isn’t new at all; he’d thought about it for all of five minutes before deciding that actually, yes, it was absolutely worth shelling out the extra cost to bring his bed from Chicago to his new place.

Brandon’s still thinking about that when he gets to his door, along with starting to wonder if he remembers where he threw the spare Tylenol when he was unpacking, because he suspects the pack in his satchel is almost empty. He’s looking down at the keys in his hand and trying to remember which one is the front door again; he really should have listened to his mom and labelled them. And that’s when someone says, “Hey,” and Brandon startles obviously enough that he drops his keys, head snapping up.

“Oh shit, sorry,” Nick says, stepping away from the wall where he’d clearly been leaning - lurking? - and waiting.

Brandon’s stuck staring, because he was not expecting this. At all. If there’d been a Nick Leddy trivia quiz - and Brandon could, hands down, beat anyone else he can name at that, thanks - then the very last question he’d expect on it would be “Who’s waiting outside an apartment in Columbus?”

He drops his bag by the door, crouches down to scoop up his keys again, and by the time he stands up Nick’s right there, in arm’s reach.

“Is it the 20th already and I didn’t notice?” Brandon jokes. 

He’s been in town a couple weeks now, settling in; hadn’t seen Nick since just before that, though they’ve been in touch at least every other day since then. He’s got their first game circled on his calendar, of course; metaphorically if nothing else, because it’s not like he’s actually going to forget the date.

Nick shrugs, wearing that same sheepish expression Brandon’s chased off his face a couple times now. 

“I wanted to check up on you,” he says. “It’s a short flight.”

“Making a habit of this?” Brandon asks, not sure how he feels about that. 

It’s part warning, that’s for sure - they can’t get too distracted during the season, Brandon has a new team and a new contract to play for, he has to keep his head in the game - but there’s a not-inconsiderable part of him which deeply appreciates it, too, right down to the bone. Even over the summer there’s enough going on that they can’t spend as much time together as he’d like, so why should he turn up his nose at a stolen extra night now?

“Just for tonight,” Nick says, with an apologetic tinge to his tone. “I have to be back, and you’ve got practice and then Nashville…” 

Brandon doesn’t ask how Nick knows his practice schedule, he’s going to assume it’s just the Minnesota grapevine functioning at full strength. Or a very well educated guess.

“It’s good to see you,” Brandon assures him, and hopes that Nick can read his face well enough for what he’s not saying. “And, uh, maybe we should go in, huh?”

“Sure thing,” Nick says, and he steps back to give Brandon space to unlock the door and push it open, reaching in to flick the lights on. At least it had been an afternoon game, they were back in town earlier than he’ll usually be home after a game at Nationwide, Brandon thinks. The airport’s closer than it was in Chicago, too.

Brandon turns back to pick up his bag, but Nick’s already grabbed that as well, and he follows Brandon in without another word. Brandon narrows his eyes - he can carry his own bags, jeez - but lets it go. Nick can be a little touchy about that kind of thing and, well, it’s not like Brandon’s a saint either.

“Thanks,” he says, as Nick drops both Brandon’s bag and his backpack on the floor by the couch.

There’s a moment after that where they just look at each other; this part is always awkward at first, it seems like, and not just because they usually have an audience. Brandon’s the one to take the first step this time, and he wraps himself tight around Nick, hugging him hard.

“Hi,” he says, “I fucking missed you.”

“Yeah,” Nick says, right by his ear. He leans back, brows drawn together in a faint frown as he looks at Brandon, raises one hand up as if to touch his cheek, stilling a fraction of a second before he makes contact.

Brandon bites his own lip, and then winces - even that hurts - and has to admit, “I really want to, but I can’t,” and it aches; enough that he’s almost tempted to try to kiss Nick anyway.

Nick won’t let him get away with that, though. He leans in instead and hugs Brandon again before letting go of him reluctantly, and saying, “Do you need anything? I did just sort of spring this on you. I can grab whatever, although, uh, you’ll probably need to give me directions.”

Brandon’s tired enough to not even try to equivocate, shakes his head carefully and says, “Nah, just. Come sit with me?”

“You bet,” Nick says, and he lets Brandon catch his wrist and draw him over to the couch, shoving the coffee table further away with the side of his foot. It makes a noise on the wooden floor that makes them both wince, and reminds Brandon he needs to put something under it so it doesn’t scratch. Just because he can afford to replace the flooring now doesn’t mean he _wants_ to.

Nick’s easy-going and malleable as Brandon arranges them both on the couch, gets Nick to sit with his back to the arm, feet up on the cushions, perpendicular to the TV. Brandon taps his knee wordlessly, and Nick follows his lead quick enough, gets a foot on the floor, making a space for Brandon to scoot in between his thighs. Brandon leans back, Nick’s chest warm and solid behind him, and without being prompted Nick just wraps his arms around him, natural as anything.

Brandon sighs, squirming a bit until he’s comfortable, tucking his head in under Nick’s chin. Strictly speaking, he’s a bit too tall to really be able to pull that off, but it hasn’t stopped him yet.

He sighs, and Nick pats his stomach comfortingly, says, “Good game today.”

“You watched?” Brandon asks, not sure how that fits into Nick’s day. He should ask later, find out just when Nick had landed. How he’d filled his time before Brandon got back as well.

“Mm, a bit,” Nick says. “I caught the highlights.” 

There’s an appreciative tone to that which suggests that Nick caught his assist at least. His first assist as a Blue Jacket, even if it’s just the preseason and doesn’t count. That doesn’t sting as much as he might have expected it would now, which probably means he’s in a good place with this whole thing now. He’s adjusting. Either that, or curling up with Nick is at least as effective as a couple of Tylenol, if not something stronger. That actually seems almost plausible.

Brandon lets himself relax all the way; Nick’s got him, Nick can handle this just fine, and they spend easily ten minutes just quietly wrapped up together, until Brandon’s seriously tempted to just let himself just fall asleep like that then and there.

“You want the TV on or anything?” Brandon offers, belatedly remembering to at least pretend like he’s being a good host. Nick doesn’t exactly count as a guest, though, not really.

“I’m good,” Nick says. “I mean, I’m planning what we should do on this couch when you haven’t tried to break your face first, but this is nice.”

Brandon lets himself start planning a little in that direction too. It’s a shockingly effective distraction, enough so that he has to shake the mental images off, and nearly clocks Nick in the chin as he forgets how close they’re sitting.

“Hey, watch it,” Nick protests, and Brandon pats his thigh, says, “Sorry, sorry.”

“This isn’t how I pictured the first time I’d get you to stay over here,” Brandon says a few seconds later. His cheeks are maybe a little pinker than usual but that’s fine, Nick isn’t going to laugh at him. Not too much, anyway.

“Me either,” Nick says, and Brandon can feel his his head move as he surveys the room, chest and shoulders shifting with his gaze. He’s only got it half decorated now, even less unpacked than Nick had been last year in Long Island.

“I wasn’t expecting you for a couple weeks,” Brandon says, hoping the touch of defensiveness is well hidden. He’s not _really_ complaining.

“I wanted to check up on you,” Nick says. “I mean, I can also get a hotel if you want…?”

“Are you kidding?” Brandon asks, mostly rhetorically. “You’re not getting out of sleeping with me that easily.”

Nick doesn’t reply for a couple of seconds and Brandon eventually gives in to curiosity and twists around to look at him. Nick’s unsuccessfully fighting a smile, smug around the edges.

“Well, if you insist,” he says, before giving in and just grinning at Brandon, his whole face alive and alight with it. Brandon feels his stomach flip at that, and fuck, he’s so- he’s so fucking gone for Nick, all the fucking way.

“I definitely insist,” Brandon says, and fuck, he really really wishes he could just kiss Nick right now. He covers Nick’s hands with his own as a poor substitute, laces their fingers together, and they just sit like that for a while longer.

Eventually Brandon shifts; his leg’s falling asleep, and Nick can’t be much better off, really.

“I need to do a couple things and then go to bed,” he says, reluctant to break the comfortable silence. “Okay with you?” If Nick wants to sit up and watch TV or do something before joining him that’s fine, they don’t have to be joined at the hip.

“Sounds good to me,” Nick says, but he doesn’t pressure Brandon to move at all, lets him get up in his own time.

Brandon grabs a few things from his bag after he gets back to his feet, and puts them away where he’ll find them tomorrow, taking a quick side-trip through his bedroom to plug his phone in before he can forget it. When he comes back to the living room, Nick’s standing and stretching, and Brandon pauses in the doorway to just appreciate it; the easy way he moves, the familiar curves and planes of his body. Brandon’s had his hands all over Nick by now, knows him by touch and taste and smell as well as sight, and he’s still not even remotely sick of looking.

“Oh,” Brandon says, belatedly. “I should give you the tour, huh?”

“Probably you don’t want me walking into walls to find the bathroom at 3am,” Nick agrees, as if Nick does anything other than sleep like the dead for a solid eight hours once he does fall asleep.

“Mmm, exactly,” Brandon says, and walks back over to the couch, stops when he’s close enough to Nick to feel the warmth of his skin. “The kitchen’s there,” he points to one doorway, “You’ve already worked out the living room, the guest room’s that way,” he points again, “The coat closet’s by the door, and my room is this way,” and he picks up Nick’s hand again, tugging him in the appropriate direction. “Though, you know, I have an en suite too, so I think you can figure that part out for yourself.”

“Probably,” Nick agrees, like he wants to tease, but there’s no resistance at all in the way he follows Brandon. 

There’s nothing uncertain or unusual in the way in which he starts to undress, matter-of-factly and methodically, after they’ve reached Brandon’s room, and Brandon lets go of him to start stripping for bed himself, almost shocked by how normal this feels.

Brandon gets naked, dumps his clothes in the hamper to wash later, and then grabs another pair of shorts to sleep in. He turns back to watch as Nick finishes up and catches the momentary hesitation as Nick gets down to his briefs before reconsidering and leaving them on. Brandon’s a little disappointed; he might not be in the best shape to do anything about it, but he likes looking at Nick, wouldn’t say no to refreshing his memory before they have yet another month of just Skype if they’re lucky.

He crawls into his side of the bed, tugging the covers up so that they’re actually over both halves of the bed instead of half falling off the mattress; Brandon’s a restless sleeper when he’s by himself in bed. Nick follows suit from the other side, and Brandon’s warmed by the fact he doesn’t hesitate for even a second before curling close, spooning up behind him, one arm draped loosely over Brandon, just in case he’d had any plans about moving.

Brandon reaches over to flick the lamp off, and then they’re lying there in the dark room, breathing in sync, although Brandon’s sure that Nick’s still awake too.

“Thanks,” he says again, barely breathing it. He needs Nick to know he appreciates it, even if he knows he can’t depend on it, knows that the next time one of them gets hurt they probably won’t be able to get away with anything like this.

“No problem,” Nick says, and ducks his head to press a kiss to the back of Brandon’s bare shoulder. 

His lips are warm, and smooth still, this close to the beginning of the season. Neither of them have spent nearly as much time in cold dry rinks as they will have done by Christmas, or the end of the season, or even a month from now, when they’ll all have chapped lips and cold-chafed skin, and summer tans will be fading winter-pale. It’s a reminder that it’s still - almost - sort of summer, and so some of the same rules still carry over, Brandon thinks. 

He leans back into Nick’s mouth, into his touch, a silent encouragement, and Nick reads him perfectly. He drags his mouth along the line of Brandon’s shoulder blade, works his way up his backbone. Nick’s leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses all across the expanse of Brandon’s back, reaching up to press his nose into the curve of Brandon’s neck before he scrapes his teeth over his trapezius and makes Brandon gasp out loud; frantic in the quiet room.

Nick’s hands have been still and perfectly decorous all this time, one slung low over Brandon’s hips, the other caught along Nick’s side, nowhere else really for it to go. His mouth alone is apparently more than enough to wake Brandon up as thoroughly if he’d never even been the slightest bit sleepy, too turned on and wound up now to think about anything other than how he wants this, wants more.

Brandon tries to reach behind himself to get a hand on something more than Nick’s hand, his forearm; he can feel that Nick’s getting hard just like he is. His erection is obvious through his briefs, hot against the small of Brandon’s back, and he tries to rock back, give Nick some friction, but Nick makes a dismissive sound, shoves Brandon’s hands back, and says, “Please, let me just—” and all Brandon can do is say, “Okay, okay, yes, please.”

“So hot,” Nick mumbles, and then licks Brandon’s neck, which should maybe be weird, but just feels hot. It’s sticky-sweet and almost stifling, and Brandon’s practically suffocating under the blankets, Nick’s body furnace-hot behind him.  
“Fuck, I missed you,” Nick says, to the back of Brandon’s head; he can feel his breath on the skin behind his ear, against his scalp through his hair. That’s easier now that it’s so short, although he and Nick had certainly both got plenty of enjoyment out of it being longer, too.

Remembering that just gets Brandon hotter. He’s all the way hard now, desperate enough that if Nick doesn’t get a hand or something on him soon he’s going to snap and shove his hand inside his own pants, no matter how undignified that is.

“Missed you too,” Brandon gasps out, and Nick growls, presses himself somehow impossibly closer.

Brandon can only give a satisfied moan as Nick grinds into him, finally runs his palm down from Brandon’s navel to push under the waistband of his shorts, fingers curling familiarly around his dick, giving him a slow, steady stroke.

“Good?” Nick asks, and Brandon huffs out, “That’s rhetorical, right?” and when Nick doesn’t speed up at all, adds, “Come on, injured man here,” because seriously, he needs the endorphins more than Nick does right now, thanks. 

It probably makes him kind of a jerk but it works, too; Nick tightens his grip on Brandon’s dick, jerks him off fast and wet, dragging his fingertips around the head. It seems like practice absolutely makes perfect, because Brandon doesn’t think he’s ever come faster than this. Maybe when he was actually a teenager.

He breathes heavily for a few minutes afterwards, feeling the heaviness and satisfaction steal through his limbs, weighing him down and making him want to be lazy and selfish. 

“You should let me get you,” Brandon says after a bit, because Nick’s still hard, hips still shifting infinitesimally against Brandon, like he wants to rub off against him, or something, anything.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Nick says stubbornly, and Brandon thinks about arguing. Nick might go for it, although they’d probably waste more time than Brandon wants to spend getting to that point. “I can take care of myself,” he adds, and okay, maybe not; Brandon knows that tone; Nick’s seriously digging his heels in on this one.

“At least let me watch,” Brandon argues, and Nick doesn’t answer for a long moment, which is how Brandon knows he’s won anyway.

“You play dirty, Saader,” he says eventually, and Brandon grins to himself and says, “I know what you like.” 

And then he reaches out to flip the switch to turn the lamp back on before shuffling carefully away so that he doesn’t land on Nick - that would put the brakes on this fast - before rolling over, meeting Nick’s eyes, smiling helplessly at him. God, they’re good at this.

“ _I_ didn’t get the lights on,” Nick grumbles, but it’s pro forma and they both know it, because he doesn’t hesitate even a second longer before kicking the sheets down to the foot of the bed, arching his back and lifting his hips off the bed so he can shove his briefs down.

His dick is hard, a dark pink in comparison to the paler skin of his thighs and stomach, and Nick sighs with what Brandon immediately recognizes as relief when he gets a hand on himself. His fingers close around the shaft before he draws his fist up towards the head, tighter than he does when he’s touching Brandon. 

It’s ridiculously hot, and Brandon keeps forgetting to breathe while he watches, lets himself wallow in the way Nick looks, the way he sounds, the way his body moves, sweating and shaking as he systematically gets himself more and more wound up. Brandon’s mouth is watering, and he has to bite back a reflexive wince when he lets his tongue press against the back of his teeth without thinking. Nick’s close enough to coming that he doesn’t notice, his face and chest both flushed with exertion and arousal, mouth open as he pants, and if anything could take Brandon’s mind off his stupid fucking teeth then, yeah, this is it.

“So fucking hot,” Brandon says, because it is; he loves that he gets to see Nick like this, _see_ this, and Nick catches his gaze and says, “Yeah, you are,” and then when Brandon breaks and starts to reach for him, gets as far as his fingertips on Nick’s wrist, he adds, “Oh, fuck,” and comes hard. He sags back into the mattress after that, and Brandon just curls his fingers around Nick’s wrist more securely, so that they’re touching there, at least.

They both lie there long enough to catch their breath, and for Brandon to start feeling a little cold too, before Nick laughs a little, rueful, and says, “I really wasn’t going to do that?”

“Get off?” Brandon asks, confused. “I’d have to be pretty fucking hurt not to want to see that.”

“Jump you,” Nick says. “I was figuring we’d just, you know. Spoon.”

Brandon opens his mouth, reconsiders, closes it. And then thinks, the hell with it, Nick’s said worse. 

“Forking’s better?” he suggests, trying to keep a straight face. Laughing at your own jokes is kind of lame, probably.

Nick just stares at him, until Brandon can’t do it any more, can’t help but snicker.

“You’re terrible,” Nick says. Brandon keeps laughing.

“No, I mean it,” Nick says. “That’s the worst. I need to call someone right now and tell them I can’t believe I’m sleeping with someone who made that joke. What time is it in Florida?”

“They’re on Eastern, same as us,” Brandon says, compelled to answer even though he knows Nick knows that as well as he does.

“Hrm,” Nick huffs, but Brandon can see from his expression that he doesn’t really mean it.

“I like that we’re in the same time zone,” Brandon says a little later, thumb rubbing at the inside of Nick’s wrist. He can feel the steady beat of his pulse, there; silently reassuring. “It’s easier.”

“I’m going to like seeing you more,” Nick says, meeting him half-way. “I think I will, anyway.” He pauses again. “Seriously, that was the worst joke. I’m getting you back for that later, when you’re not all,” he ghosts a touch over Brandon’s jaw, the very tip of his index finger dragging on the stubble of Brandon’s five o’clock shadow, and they both shiver. “All hurt. Don’t do that again, it scared the crap out of me.”

“I couldn’t text you until they let me get my phone back,” Brandon says, apologetically; he’d had to message his mom and dad first anyway, because they also worried. But he and Nick have definitely got better at this communicating stuff, he can tell by how the silence they lapse into after is a comfortable one.

“I really can’t believe you’re here,” Brandon repeats softly to himself, after he thinks maybe Nick’s dropped off to sleep. 

It still feels slightly unreal; being here himself and having Nick with him, especially since he’d woken up that morning with nothing more than toothache and a vague sense of relief that at least he was about to get back on the ice and play again. He’d known he’d be catching up with family, however quickly, but he hadn’t expected to see anyone else everyone he cared about this much. It’s been a pretty fucking great day all around, he thinks, starting to drift towards sleep at last.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Nick says quietly, not asleep after all. 

He doesn’t have to add anything more than that; neither of them have said it in so many words yet, but Brandon can pick up the silent declaration that that implies just fine. And he’s pretty sure Nick knows he feels the same.

“Sleep now,” Brandon suggests, closing his eyes, sinking down into the mattress, back into Nick’s warmth. He’d missed this, too.

“Yeah, yeah,” Nick says, voice muffled by the pillow. “I’m very impressed you stayed awake this long, Saader.”

Brandon snorts, mumbles, “Good _night_ , Leds,” and doesn’t dignify that with any further answer.

“Night,” Nick says, and he kisses Brandon’s shoulder one last time, and then, so far as Brandon can tell, half asleep and fuzzy himself, he does fall asleep.

It’s not a bad way to start the season, all things considered, Brandon thinks. There’s a lot to look forward to.

**Author's Note:**

> **the Taylor Swift pun, for the record: 
> 
>  
> 
> _Hey_   
>  _I don't know about you_   
>  _But I'm feeling 20/2_
> 
>  
> 
> :D


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